


Eggsy Unwin: Danger Wanker

by otherwiseestella



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Eggsy Unwin is a Little Shit, Eggsy loves to get his end away, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, Fluff, Kingsman Training, M/M, Masturbation, Merlin Is So Done (Kingsman), PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Shameless Smut, and who are we to stop him., wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-08 03:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18886663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: Alternative title: Five times Eggsy had a wank, and one time he had a hand...Eggsy Unwin really, really wants to get off. But it's not like there are many opportunities for privacy in the Kingsman training dorms. Or out on mission. Or on a stakeout....He'll just have to take matters into his own hands, make the best of it, and hope that nobody catches him - even if he might hope that someone in particular is watching.~~~'Anyway he’s up, and his dick could hammer nails into steel, and he’s pretty sure everyone else’s sleeping. And if they ain’t sleeping, well, they fucking should be, and he wants a wank.And if Merlin’s behind the glass, well. Tough shit for him.'~~~This is a 5+1 that wouldn't leave me alone, and then grew into six chapters of absolute filth. Featuring alll the wanking you could ever want, in all manner of scenarios. It's total, absolute smut, with a big old dollop of fluff, and a teeny bit of fluff that bullied it's way in.





	1. On the Job

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who helped with this and suggested scenarios - you know who you are, and you all have deliciously filthy brains.
> 
> I loved writing this and I hope you enjoy it - please leave a comment if so, they really help - and if you're on twitter let me know, I love chatting all things Eggsy and his appetites.

Eggsy Unwin grew up in a house where three nights out of five his sister’s cot got stuck in his room, his door didn’t lock, and sometimes he ended up sleeping on the sofa, if Dean had one of his fucking goons staying over and fancied playing big man power games about who got to sleep in a bed.

He also grew pretty quickly into wanting to get his dick wet all the fucking time, and he weren’t ever short of choices, exactly, but sometimes a wank was just as good and twice as easy to come by as a proper shag. So he wanked, like, a lot.

And not to brag or anything, but he is fucking brilliant at it. Absolutely A plus wanker. Shame there weren’t a Kingsman class, to be honest, because he’d be undisputed top for technique and for never getting caught.

Because you didn’t grow up in a gaff like his without learning to wank fast, wank quiet, bite back every possible noise and come with just a single harsh little breath, get your breathing back down fast and lick your own jizz off your hand, hide the evidence.

And yeah, he was never short of mates to get his end away with if he wanted company – Ryan’s big brother with the massive mouth who liked to get stoned and suck cock, Janey whose mum was never home and who used to wank him off in front of Home and Away then make him go down on her during The Simpsons, so he never got the references but the theme tune got him sprung. Sarah-Lee and her mate Lola who was the first bird ever to stick a finger up his arse, night he turned fifteen.

A whole boatload of sticky fingers and good times but even in the midst of all that – well, he still wanked, didn’t he?

They used to check your sheets at Basic and his mates in the barracks used to get hauled for it all fucking time, idiots. Upped the frequency of wet fumbly head though, because it was easier to swallow someone else’s for the privilege of not doing thirty press-ups in the buff when your sheets were tacky. And that was nice, but it weren’t always enough.

He’d still rub one out in the showers, trying to get it done before he got company, or out on stake-out, quiet in the undergrowth, palming himself through combats.

And it didn’t change at Kingsman. Things had been shit at the flat, he’d barely been allowed to close his bedroom door for weeks, and so the first few nights away from there, first few nights at HQ, he’d ended up gagging for it just out of relief.

But the Kingsman dorms were worse than the barracks for privacy. And he gave them all the once over but there weren’t nobody he could crack on to – all of them in competition with him, half of ‘em absolute twats, enough to make his balls crawl back into his body even having to talk to them.

Couldn’t imagine getting sprung within ten miles of Charlie, he’d probably smell it and drop trou, ask for a game of soggy biscuit, posh fucker. Gross.

But by the second week he was going mental with it, kept waking up hard, having these stupid sex dreams that never actually got him off.

‘Rox’, he’d said, at the end of a run when they were both sweating out their eyeballs and proper rank, ‘you still getting off while we’re here?’

She’d pinked a little, cocked her head to one side.

‘I’m not entirely sure that’s an appropriate question,’ she’d replied, then grinned. ‘But, yes, actually. Not that hard for me, always done it on my front. And I’m pretty quiet.’

There’s a silence then, a little pause where Eggsy imagines it, and then….

‘That wasn’t an invitation, by the way. Ask Digby, I’m sure he’s dying to feel a hand that isn’t his own.’

‘Ew, Rox, piss off.’

And that was the end of it. He’d tried to stay awake for a couple of nights to see if he could hear her, but it didn’t quite feel right and anyway, she weren’t lying, she must silent as the grave. Bit creepy.

Eventually, sixteen days in, his dick actually wakes him up – or something does, so he finds himself jolted at 4am, the weird green light over the loos giving everything an eerie wash. A noise, maybe – they’ve replaced that two-way mirror, but not the soundproof seal yet, he’s noticed.

He’d realised it when Charlie was up all in his face one afternoon, just in front of the mirrors. Eggsy’d heard a noise behind the screen that Charlie missed and rather than fighting back he’d just smiled and thought _yeah, dickhead, come at me, let ‘em see the sort of cunt you are_.

Why there’d be anyone lurking behind the mirror at 4am, he’s no idea, except he suspects that Merlin never sleeps, powers himself on the second-hand adrenaline of new recruits, and coffee. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing sleep studies on ‘em all.

Anyway he’s up, and his dick could hammer nails into steel, and he’s pretty sure everyone else’s sleeping. And if they ain’t sleeping, well, they fucking should be, and he wants a wank.

And if Merlin’s behind the glass, well. Tough shit for him.

He does imagine him though, all unblinking and stern, watching over them all.

His dick gives a little jump, at that. Not – well, not surprising, to be brutally honest. Merlin looks like he could fuck Eggsy up proper good and he’s absolutely into it – but wank fodder’s different from actually… doing anything.

Just because he’s hot for teacher don’t mean it’s a good idea to get the goods out while he’s being – assessed for sleeping like a spy, or whatever.

But he fucking wants to, don’t he? And that’s the problem. _All instinct and no planning_ , like Harry says sometimes to him, with that tone that’s half a row, half admiration.

Before he knows it, he’s slipped out of bed and is walking across to the mirror. Slips whoever’s behind it a little look, like he’s giving ‘em fair warning that they might want to make themselves scarce.

If he presses himself alongside the glass, in one of the corners, it tucks him away pretty well from the other recruits. And if that just happens to give whoever’s on the other side an absolute eyeful, then hey, plausible deniability.

He can feel his dick throbbing, though, at the thought of Merlin, face impassive, shoulders broad in that jumper, taking notes on his clipboard as he watches.

He leans his back against the wall, and it’s cold. Feels just hidden away enough that he can let his eyes close a sec, can drop his shoulders a bit. He spits quietly into his hand, wraps it loose around his dick. Fuckin’ Christ but that’s nice.

He twitches a bit, thumb up over the head and pressing gently as he rubs over his slit, just like he likes. Lets the pre-come bead, smoothes it over until the tip is all shiny and red. Hopes whoever it is behind the glass is getting a good look, if they want to. He’s been told enough times he’s got a nice cock, and he hopes they’re appreciating it.

He’s torn – wants to make this a good show, but he don’t want to risk waking up Charlie and his cunt-wads, and frankly, he’s not gonna last long anyway. His hand feels too good, the quiet hum of the temperature controls and the weird green light make the whole thing feel like a fever-dream, and he’s so desperate for it that he can already see little pinpricks of light behind his eyes.

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, nips it in that way he knows is obnoxious.  
He’s used that little move on enough blokes in enough clubs to know it’s effective, even if it does feel weird that he’s doing it to himself in a mirror. He looks a bit of a twat – the column of his neck tense, his chest heaving like he’s out on exercise, a pink blush scribbling across his cheeks.

But his eyes are dark and hungry, and his cock’s stiff and full, and yeah, if he’s being honest there’s something a bit hot about seeing himself like this. And it’s even hotter imagining Merlin – what? He can’t imagine him blushing, can’t imagine him giving anything away, but maybe his knuckles are just a little bit white from holding that clipboard too hard, maybe his shoulders are moving, just the tiniest little bit, from trying to control his breathing.

He’d love to see Merlin undone. He’d love to – oh fuckin’ hell – he’d love to get down on his knees for him, have Merlin just undo his flies and keep on working while Eggsy did his best to drive him mental.

The image is so clear, supernova bright in his head and his hand’s tight and quick round his cock, and he can feel the heat gathering in his stomach, so close he can taste it.

He pauses for just a second, wants to savour the last few touches before he comes, that liquid-spine feeling.

He holds his breath for a second, and that’s when he hears the tiniest noise behind the glass, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to another.

He imagines Merlin’s face, inches away from his own through the glass, looking right at him.

He squeezes round the top of his cock once, firm, and then he’s coming.

He’s coming and it’s so fucking good, the white-heat of the pleasure forcing out a long, shuddery breath, louder than he’d like. His jizz goes further than he thinks it will, up in spurts over the glass, spills over the top of his hand and drips down over his knuckles. His legs go funny, his head drops with a quiet thunk onto the mirror.

Well. Whoever it was got a proper eyeful, and he’s fucking knackered now. Feels good, all fuzzy warm and loose joints, little tingles of pleasure still zipping about in his blood.

He wipes down the glass, washes his hands, and if he swaggers a little on his way back to his bed then that’s his lookout, ain’t it?

And he will swear blind that the next day, when they’re all getting ready to take out targets in the shooting range, Merlin can’t quite look him in the eye. Turns out you can, actually, blush so hard it fucks your accuracy scores, but everyone’s too busy worrying about how you maintain accuracy with the brollies to notice. Well, almost everyone, and he can’t bring himself to look at Merlin.

He doesn’t hear the noise behind the mirror again, and two days later the guys have come and installed new soundproofing.


	2. I can't get no sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy's undercover with Bors. It'd be a nice easy job, if only he weren't so sleep deprived...  
> There's not much you can do in a hotel room at three in the morning, but there's certainly one thing Eggsy quite fancies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is *everything*, like most fic writers it literally keeps me going! So please do comment if you can, I treasure them all the way Eggsy treasures an unbroken night's sleep. xx

There's nothing wrong with Panama, per se. Except he's here with Bors. And Bors snores. Loud enough that Eggsy’d heard the people in the neighbouring room request a change at the reception desk. He’s also, it turns out, incredibly fucking touchy about it, and Eggsy’d had a dead arm for hours after he’d brought it up.

'That’s no way to speak to your brother, Ed', Bors had hissed, and Eggsy was going to murder Merlin for giving them cover as two wealthy siblings on a jaunt for their dad’s firm. Bors is such a smug fuck about it, even though they don’t look nothing alike.

He’s tried everything: earplugs, kicking him, getting to sleep before him and hoping the snoring wouldn’t wake him up. Nothing works.

So right now, he’s surviving on whatever he can snatch during the day and the knowledge that as soon as they’ve got the arms dealers’ movements down, they’re gonna go in, fuck up their whole operation with precision, and be back in the UK where he can sleep like the dead for two days.

If it wasn’t for that nice little daydream, the one where he’s all soft and sleepy in bed and Harry brings him coffee then lets him nap again, Eggsy would have killed Bors on the third night.

He still might, actually. It’s a nightmare trying to concentrate on anything on this little sleep. The light fitting on the ceiling is, Eggsy swears, shaking slightly, but that might be his vision. His pulse has started to go, too, fast and hard and he’s tamping down on that feeling of being proper fucking furious. He’s not going to fight Bors, it ain’t his fault, they’re at work, and Eggsy doesn’t do that.

But still, he’s imagining pinning him to the ground and walloping him one just to make himself feel better.

That, and he’s reading a bunch of files Merlin sent through earlier. There’s a trick to reading reports on the Kingsman-issue specs. Takes a bit of getting used to but it’s quite comfy, really, and it means he can be lying in bed, Bors’ heat coming off him in waves, reading about illegal weapons sales in Ethiopia, and how many AKs have got little stamps on ‘em that track back to the shits running a racket out of the warehouse next door.

Funny thing about career criminals. They always want to put their signature on everything, narcissistic bastards.

He’s about halfway through, and maybe his body is thinking about dozing off, when Bors makes a fucking unholy noise, like a rhino trying to get into a bar on a Friday night, and that’s fucking _it._

He’s up out the bed like a shot because he is absolutely not going to do what his body wants, which is punch Bors in the kidney then give him a lecture about what gentlemen do and do not do in their sleep.

Maybe he’ll have a shower. The hotel’s nice but creaky, the aircon just a fan, and there’s sweat prickling across the back of his neck constantly. It’s been nice – Harry keeps dolefully sending him pictures of snow in reply to his bright sunny skies – but the constant heat when he’s this tired makes his skin itchy, makes him want to burrow inside a freezer and stay there.

Makes him all jumpy, like his blood’s fizzy. That might just be the mental tiredness, the way he’s wired and sluggish all at the same time.

He doesn’t make it to the bathroom for a shower, just slumps down in the desk chair, and looks blankly into the middle distance.

In the bed, Bors keeps snoring.

The sun is beginning to turn the night sky pink which means that back in England, Rox’ll be in bed, and he isn’t gonna nark Harry because he doubts he’s getting much sleep as it is. He flicks his eyes to the cameras he knows about – the ones he put up, Bors doing the high corners.

He raises an eyebrow, mouths ‘Alright, Merlin?’

He fucking hopes it’s Merlin. Could be anyone on the monitors. But it shouldn’t be active observation, and so he’s probably safe. Chances are that unless the mission goes tits up, nobody’ll ever see the footage, unless Merlin ever bothers scrolling through it to check for Eggsy being a cheeky shit.

He might.

Eggsy sort of hopes he will.

Lets his legs fall open, looks down at the little band of pale skin where his briefs ride up. The tan’s the only thing he’s enjoying about the mission so far, even if Bors had made some comment about bleaching his eyes when Eggsy’d tried to sunbathe naked on the balcony. If Bors ain’t got anyone at home who’ll appreciate his well-tanned arse, then that’s his lookout, not Eggsy’s.

He’s so, so hot. Hot and tired and itchy and he quite fancies a wank but he’s not hard, really, just a faint thud of interest running through him.

Might be nice though. Get off, nice and slow and sweaty, maybe come hard enough to put him to sleep for a bit.

He lets his eyes fall closed.

There’s an appeal in the show, thumbing his nipples, arching his back, the whole nine yards. Finding something slick and getting a finger in his arse. Making a proper spectacle. He’d sweat, probably, from the effort. Chest all shiny with it, forehead prickling. Yeah, that might look good.

Probably can’t be arsed though. Just wants that dopamine hit, wants to feel that loose sleepy pass-out feeling, even if maybe Merlin would appreciate a bit of a show. Not that he’s got any evidence of that.

He thinks about Merlin, sitting in his temperature-controlled office with its low machine hum, three screens in front of him, jumper on. Cup of tea to one side. Thinks that maybe the motion out the corner of one’s screen alerted him, that his eyes are on him now, that faint terse line that his lips make when he’s thinking.

Wonders if he activates the door lock. Wonders if he hopes Eggsy spins it out, takes his time. Wonders if he’ll just loop it to the private server, hit record and keep working.

It does kick his arousal up a gear, lets his pulse pump heavy in his dick, but it’s nowhere near enough, not with Bors still honking four feet away.

He leans back in the chair, feels the rough hotel upholstery prickle over his bare back. Imagines the scratch is nails, like the ones on that red-headed bird he’d met at one of Jamal’s mate’s parties, all sticky counter-tops and blue alcohol and stolen speakers. Remembered her slinking up round the back of him, running her nails down his back, leaving pretty red stripes. She’d been chewing bubblegum, laughed when he’d told her his name.

Him heaving her up onto the counter top, sound of bottles going over, hands on her thighs, tongue in her mouth all heat and teeth and spit. Remembers how she let him lick her through her lacy knickers, came all quiet shudders, and then shifted them to one side to let him fuck her in someone else’s bed.

Fuck, that had been nice. He lets his hand drift down, gives himself a rub over his briefs as his legs fall further open. His dick’s starting to fatten up, and he feels it twitch under his hand.

He don’t miss much about his old life, but getting off with random girls on a Friday, yeah, he’s big enough to say misses that sometimes. Scoring’s a proper rush, girls at house-parties or boys in clubs when he was on leave from Basic.

Remembers that boy – well, man really, he was massive. Thighs like tree-trunks, who’d ground up on him at G-A-Y. He’d at least half a foot on him, huge hands, nice smile. He’d pinned him against a disgusting, sticky wall.

He’d been sweaty, smelled of Cool Water and vodka soda, and he’d kept a hand in Eggsy’s hair, whispered absolute filth about how hot he was whilst he palmed his dick through his jeans. Called him pretty, which back then had made Eggsy’s face flush.

Remembers kissing him so he’d shut the fuck up about it. The way he’d hitched Eggsy back up, effortless, when he slipped down and weren’t that nice, to feel that small in some man’s hands even though the week before he’d broken the training weapons accuracy scores at Basic. He’d been fit as fuck – Pablo or something, couldn’t actually hear him – big brown eyes and a broken nose, shoulder-length hair.

He’d sucked him off behind some industrial bins on Greek Street at three in the morning, because he was kipping on a mate’s sofa and Pablo was staying in a backpacker’s hostel. Heavy foot traffic either side of them, fuck-all privacy, and that sickly pink neon light from bar signs.

The pavement had been crunchy with broken glass, and Pablo had been rock hard, the fucking exhibitionist, and the whole thing had been over in three minutes flat, Eggsy pushing Pablo’s jizz back into his mouth as they had one last kiss.

It had been nice, brief, but he’d big enough that Eggsy’s jaw had ached a bit the next day, and the feeling of come across his tongue while shitty pop music spilled out of bars was fucking transcendent.

Ugh, he’s proper hard now, pushes his briefs down to halfway down his thighs, takes himself in hand. Lets his other hand wander, rakes his nails across his inner thighs because he likes that, dragging sparks over the tender flesh. It’s getting lighter in the room, and Bors tends to wake early. And don’t that give him a little kick. It’s not Greek Street, sure, but it’s still a thrill, the thought of having to finish before he’s caught.

Everything’s sweat-warm and musky, and he’s leaking enough over his fingers to feel slick and easy. Pleasure’s all slow, syrupy, deep in his blood. He pauses for a second, brings his hand up to his mouth, lets his tongue dart out his mouth and lick the precome off his fingers.

Harry ain’t the only one who likes the taste, even though it probably ain’t right to admit it. Likes how obscene it is. He hopes the pale light will pick up the slick across his lips, just in case there are eyes watching from those cameras.

He wants Merlin to think about his dick brushing over Eggsy’s lips, getting him all grubby.

He’s gonna have to talk to Harry about this when he gets home.

An image flashes up, then, his brain suddenly honing in on the thought of Merlin’s cock in his mouth whilst behind him, gently rocking into him is Harry, with one hand tight round the back of his neck, whispering dirty little encouragements.

A slow, heavy breath escapes him, and he feels the heat prickle over his thighs, at the base of his spine. Ugh, he’s not gonna last. He’s too sleep-deprived and under-stimulated.

Four days without even a wank and his hand on his dick feels far too good, and imagining Merlin’s cock in his mouth makes him shove two fingers in there without thinking, suck round them, flex them to the back of his throat to press his tongue down like he likes.

Bors shifts in the bed and he freezes, a little lurch of adrenaline, but there’s barely a break in his breathing and he’s snoring again in seconds.

He makes a face straight into the camera, a properly mardy smirk that says just what he’d like to do to Bors.

But, he’s still hard, still hot and sticky and so exhausted it’s beginning to feel like he’s coming down from something. So he speeds up, just a little, nice and firm and yeah, fuck, that’s it, that’s nice.

Thinks about Merlin, except this time it’s shifted, it’s Merlin’s fine wool trousers open at the fly behind those industrial bins in the chaos of a Saturday night, one hand firm in Eggsy’s hair, breathing barely disturbed. It’s Merlin’s dick heavy and hard in his mouth and the sound of partygoers all round them.

And it’s a test, got to make him come before he draws attention to them, before everyone stops what they’re doing and turns, before there’s faces, staring at him. Featureless and distant, but the focus is there. And they’re all looking at him on his knees, judging how well he’s doing, looking at him with Merlin’s cock in his mouth, like the filthy fucking slut he…

Eggsy comes so fast it takes him by surprise and he lets out a low noise that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. _Fuckin’ hell._ He’s no idea where that had even come from, but now there’s jizz running through his fingers, his whole body flushing at the image burned into his retina.

Fuck, but does that feel good. He’s dripping, now, smears his wet hand across his boxers, grins at the mess. Breathes through his nose a couple of times, because his lungs seemed to have stopped working, and his thighs are a bit jittery with aftershock.

And then he gets up in the pale morning light, slips into the bathroom, and has a shower so long that by the time he’s out, Bors is awake, dressed and drinking coffee.

When they get back from the mission, after taking out the arms dealers with minimal mess, minimal fuss, and only one truly epic explosion, Merlin pulls him aside, gives him a gentle reminder that ‘other agent’s personal foibles needn’t be dwelt on in mission reports’, and there’s this minute pause, as if Merlin’s weighing something in his mind, and he says ‘especially when certain agents would do well to remember they’ve foibles of their own’. And Eggsy’s calling that one a win.


	3. In the back of a sensible family car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy's on stakeout. Or he would be on stakeout, if there was anyone doing anything criminal in a car-park up the back of Whitby at 6pm on an October Sunday, but there ain’t. Even the seagulls ‘ve buggered off.
> 
> Eggsy's got a long wait, a warm hand, and rather lovely set of thoughts to keep him occupied.
> 
> * * *

He’s on stakeout. Or he would be on stakeout, if there was anyone doing anything criminal in a car-park up the back of Whitby at 6pm on an October Sunday, but there ain’t. Even the seagulls ‘ve buggered off.

‘Merlin’, he murmurs into his comms. ‘Merlin it’s fucking freezing, and nobody’s come in or gone out that shed for three hours, can’t I at least go get some chips?’

He pauses. Silence on the other end of the line. 

‘Right, that’s it. Chips here I come.’

The key’s turned halfway in the ignition – of the Ford Ka, which is a fucking joke, and he can’t believe they’re actually making him drive one, thank God none of his mates can see him – when Merlin’s voice comes on the line.

‘Gawain. Remain in position, for Christ’s sake. You know the briefing. If you’re that bored you should’ve taken a crossword with you.’

‘All due respect, fuck off, guv, ‘ve been here hours.’

‘Remain in position, Gawain, and less of your lip. We’ve got an ETA of 20.00 hours for the target, but they’ve been early before.’

Eggsy sighs. He knows fine well this job’s just as important as anything else, that he’s been lucky with missions for months, not had a bum job for ages. It’s his turn, and if Rox keeps sending him pictures of her skiing through the Alps like a smug arsehole it ain’t her fault, she was in Glasgow sorting out a trafficking ring for weeks before that. 

Doesn’t make him any better at being bored off his tits, though.

‘You busy then?’

‘No, Galahad. Just twiddling my thumbs, hoping that my agents will try to make inane chatter instead of focusing on the task in hand.’ Merlin’s dry, amused.

‘What do you reckon they want with all the blueprints anyway? It can’t be bombs, innit, their premises are fucking flammable.’ In front of Eggsy, two seagulls are fighting over an empty packet of salt and vinegar Discoes. What a life.

‘Not likely. Intel we’ve got so far reckons they’re probably running an infestation scam. You know, fill the offices with rats then get the extermination contract.’

‘Merlin, that is the actual shittest criminal activity I’ve ever heard. Why the fuck are we on it?’

There’s a long pause – he can hear the thicker silence, which means he’s muted at Merlin’s end, because he’s switched to another line. The seagulls are going for it, look like they’re gonna murder each other. There’s nobody else around.

‘Apologies, Galahad – the reason we’re involved is because they’ve upgraded from rats to chemical weapons – not quite anthrax, they’re starting small, but enough to be concerning. Not manufacturing yet, but certainly looking to buy the means of production.’

‘You should see these seagulls, they are absolutely going for it. Reckon they’re gonna rip each other’s legs off. S’like lions on the Serengeti or some shit.’

‘Roger that, Galahad, now shut the fuck up and let me get on with my work, sir.’

Merlin ‘sirs’ Galahad only when he’s on fuckin’ thin ice, and Eggsy suspects that if he don’t shut up, he’s going be looking being handled by Isolde by the rest of the evening, not only is she absolutely resistant to his charms, but she’s also a heavy breather.

‘Alright, I get it, no more David Attenborough updates for you then.’

Silence resumes. He can see the sea in the distance, the steel-grey line of it at the harbour and the expanse beyond. The Abbey up on the cliff, fading into late-afternoon shadow. Down in Whitby proper, there’s lights coming on. It’s pretty. Romantic, in a weird, prim little seaside town way. Maybe he’ll bring Harry here, make him eat cones of chips on the harbour wall and kiss him all grease and vinegar in the little windy streets. He bets there are some B&B owners they could absolutely scandalise, old Mrs So and So, shocked by the ruckus from room four, hoping they’re just moving furniture.

And why does that make his dick twitch? It has been a few days since he were home and he does miss fucking on the regular, and suddenly, the hours between now and whenever the fuck the goons are gonna start goon business suddenly seem full of rosy fuckin’ prospect.

‘Merlin’, he says, leaning back in the driving seat, stretching his shoulders. ‘Don’t reckon much is moving, so I’m gonna cut comms for now. You need me, beep me, yeah?’

‘Galahad’, Merlin’s voice is wary. ‘That’s not protocol, and you’ve got a tracker. I’m going to notice if you steam off to the chippie.’

‘Swear down, Guv’, Eggsy says, smirking. ‘I ain’t going nowhere.’

‘Very well, but it’s going in the write-up.’

And with a sigh that amply communicates the fact that he’s nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is, Merlin disables the line.

Soon as Merlin’s gone, Eggsy’s got his hands down his trousers. He’s half-hard already, just because it ain’t everyday you whip it out in a car park, and that’s on top of the thrill Merlin’s long-suffering sigh gave him. He’s probably thinking about Eggsy’s dick. Or at least, Eggsy can hope he is.

There’s nobody about, and even the gulls have fucked off.

There’s nobody about, his dickhead subconscious whispers, but there could be.

He’s thought about it before, yeah. Xtube’s got enough dogging stuff and it’s not like he’s serious. He just likes watching people get fucked in cars on video occasionally, usually when he’s so far down a porn rabbit-hole that he can’t remember how he got there.

And this car park’s nice and remote. Barely any streetlights, either. 

Ohh, and his cock likes that idea, don’t it? That dim orange light and cars with their interior lights on, doors open, half steamed up from fucking. The arrangement of bodies don’t matter – Eggsy ain’t precious – but he does imagine himself in Harry’s lap on the driver’s seat, Harry three fingers deep, murmuring filth in his ear.

‘That’s it, Eggsy. Come on now. Nice and open for me.’

That would be almost enough, he reckons, to take him out himself, to make him forget he’s in a car park, in a car, totally exposed.

Harry’s fingers always make him go silly, all slack and excited, start up that thread of lust that winds him up like nothing else. He can imagine himself, nose against Harry’s hairline, up on his thighs, eyes falling closed until a sudden noise on the glass brings him back to himself.

A hand. Male, some sort of zipped sports jacket that makes Harry’s breath hitch and honestly, Eggsy is gonna have to have a word about that at some point, because that properly is a class kink. Then a face, right up close. Looking intently as Harry bends Eggsy away from him, over the passenger seat, so the man can get an absolute eyeful of Harry’s fingers disappearing into Eggsy’s opening. There’s nothing he can do, he’s so exposed, and he hears the man outside the car swear under his breath, say something lewd about what a little whore he is, to want to be on display like that.

Coming back to himself, he realises he’s panting. His cock’s a hard line up to his stomach, so wet it’s leaving a tacky trail over his shirt. He’s stripping himself off like he’s back in Basic stealing seconds before someone comes in, but he’s so hard and so blindingly turned on that he can’t stop.

He looks down at his dick, red and wet at the tip, the way his hand curls round it. 

Imagines for a second it’s the hand of some stranger, that Harry’s rolled down the car window to let some guy he’s never met lean in, make some filthy comment about how pretty he looks being fucked on Harry’s fingers, and would he like a little hand there, something to help him finish. The man might talk to Eggsy, but he’d check with Harry. Make it very clear that Eggsy didn’t really have much say in this, that he was there for everyone else to take pleasure from, that he was someone that people got to touch, and pet, and fuss over, and fuck into incoherence.

‘And would you like that, Eggsy?’ He imagines Harry’s voice at his ear, close enough and low enough that he can feel its vibrations down his neck. ‘Will you let this man touch you? Will you thank him for making you feel so good whilst you’re all spread out and writhing over my lap?’

And he’s fully blushing to even fantasise about it, like it’s the first time he’s ever thought it. Imagines the noise, Harry’s fingers slick inside him, Harry’s heavy breath and the muttered obscenities of the man with his hand round his dick. 

He’s close now, sparkling with it, brain all strung out. There’s a thudding pulse in his ears, bright light behind his eyes, spine all liquid with the fucking kick of it. 

‘You’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you? All open and on display, letting some stranger wank you off in the carpark?’ And it’s Harry’s voice he’s hearing even if it’s his own ragged voice panting the words, over and over in a shockingly bad impression of Harry’s clipped consonants. The words sound deafening, obscene in the muffled quiet of the car. 

‘Fuck, that’s nice. Fuck, Harry, I am, that’s what I want, everyone watching. Oh, shit, shit I’m gonna…fuck, fuck.’

And he does. Takes one great big gulp in before he’s coming, soaking his shirt with little shuddering pulses of come. It feels like his brain’s leaving his dick, like his whole spine’s actually melted, and the butterflies in his stomach are more like horses, thudding lovely in time to his pulse. 

Fuccccking hell. He ain’t come like that in months, all feverish and proper lost in it. He feels weak, knackered, like he does when Harry’s fucked him into incoherence.

There’s come everywhere, and it takes him a sec to remember he’s in a fucking Kingsman issue car, and that’s gonna be a problem. He licks his hand, and feels his dick give a weak little throb at that.

Flips open the glove compartment to for tissues, he’s made a right mess. He grins a bit. Quite likes it, like when he absolutely ruins the sheets and Harry gives him shit for just rolling over and sleeping in the wet patch, waking up tacking with the cotton stuck to him.

He’d better get it valeted before he gives the car back, though, or Merlin’s gonna proper rinse him.

Merlin. 

Fucking fucking shit. What if he was listening, what if he’d….

Nah, it’s probably fine. He’d asked him to cut comms, hadn’t he? And Merlin’s not. Well. Not like he hasn’t been dancing round that for months but still. Fuck. 

It’s one thing for him to maybe get an eyeful, see the goods yeah. But it’s different when he’s spilling absolute filth.

It’s one thing to watch someone wanking, but it’s different to have all that right in his ear. And it ain’t like Eggsy’s ashamed, really, but dogging’s a bit…weird, innit. Specialist. Niche. Maybe something he don’t need Merlin of all people knowing he’s into. 

Merlin barely takes him seriously most of the time anyway, last thing he needs is him imagining Eggsy being fucked in the back of a sensible family car next time they’re at a briefing meeting. 

He waits for ten minutes. Lets his breath stabilise, his heart rate come right back down. Makes sure nobody’s turned up at the warehouse during that little episode. Shocker, they haven’t. Fucking goons. No sense that they might be putting anyone else out, innit.

He presses the little button on his glasses, re-initiates the comms.

‘Alright, Merlin?’

‘Galahad, nice of you to come back into the fold. Any movement?’

‘None guv, but there’s still … twenty three minutes before they’re late.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse yourself.’

He breathes out. Everything’s fine, then. Got away with it. And if there’s a little bite of disappointment that apparently Merlin was off comms then fine, he’s big enough to admit that. 

There’s a companionable little silence, and he can hear Merlin typing.

‘Patch me back in once anything’s happening please, Galahad. And – one more thing.’

‘Yes guv?’

‘I assume nobody’s attacked you in the past… twenty minutes, have they?’

‘Nah, not even them seagulls.’

‘Then can I advise you take your fucking watch off, Galahad, next time you decide to give yourself the hairy palm treatment on company time? It’s got a heart rate monitor and I don’t need my staff having to deal with your... boredom relief. And you’ll get the car valeted, too, on the way home.’

The ground has never swallowed Eggsy up when he needed it to. Not when Dean was gonna leather him and he didn’t have an escape route, not the first time he got food poisoning on mission, not that time he was halfway out the bathroom window after a one night stand when the girl came in to take a piss. It ain’t gonna start now, is it.

‘Right, yeah, well. Sorry, guv. Won’t happen again.’

‘Aye. We’ll see about that.’

And Merlin’s voice is absolutely all professionalism, doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard anything, seen anything beyond the predictable heart monitor spike. But Eggsy strains his ears, listens down the line and he would absolutely swear that he can hear the tinkle of ice in a glass, which means that Merlin’s drinking on the job. And if Merlin’s drinking on the job, then…

There’s a thick little silence, and neither of them speak until mercifully, brilliantly, a vanful of twitchy men pull up, give his car a once over and decide he must just be an idiot trying to fix his sat-nav, and start filing into the warehouse. Bless them, Eggsy thinks, they’ve even got briefcases.

‘Target identified, Merlin. I’m going in.’

‘Good luck, Galahad.’

‘Yeah, and this time, if my watch goes mental I am actually being attacked, innit.’

He shouldn’t be able to hear Merlin rolling his eyes, but he absolutely can.


	4. On the Megabus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there is a hell, Eggsy reckons it's the 10pm Megabus from Glasgow to London. Ten solid hours of other people’s body heat, the smell of stale booze and smuggled-in McDonalds.
> 
> Ten hours. Fuck all to do, and he ain't allowed to doze off.
> 
> Only one thing to do, really...

If there is a hell, Eggsy reckons it's the 10pm Megabus from Glasgow to London. Ten solid hours of other people’s body heat, the smell of stale booze and smuggled-in McDonalds.

They’re barely out of the city limits and already he can hear the group of girls behind him moaning that the litre of vodka they brought on is almost gone.

‘Aimee, see if you drank all that, you’re gonna absolutely boak and it’s no gonnae be on me.’

It is going to be a fucking long night, and he is absolutely using this for leverage every single time he wants a good mission, a day off, to test something new at the firing range… Although at the moment all he really wants is a written apology from Merlin for being such a fucking dick, but he knows it’s his own fault, really.

The whole thing had been his idea.

Rox has been in deep cover for eight weeks already, posing as Princess Charlotta of Baad-Heidelberg’s new best friend Cecelia, studying Classics at Glasgow Uni. 

Her father, whose principality wasn’t worth wiping his arse with any more, had recently gone big into supplying narcotics for the upper classes. Poor Charlotta, who Rox reckoned was a bit dim, had been given the job of running a bunch of coke through her halls at Uni. Only, you didn’t mess with Glasgow drug gangs, and they already had the uni covered very nicely, thank you.

So that left Rox currently acting as Charlotta’s best friend and not-very-subtle bodyguard, and she’d already extracted her from one hostage situation, which according to her text ‘Charlotta just thought was a fun locked-room game’, followed by a series of rolling eye emojis.

Then Eggsy, who by now should really have learned to keep his fucking mouth shut in briefing meetings, suggested that Charlotta and Cecilia should get out of Glasgow for a bit, some way where her cunt of a Dad wouldn’t notice. 

And like, Eggsy’s snuck out of London enough times to know that you can fake a name on a Megabus ticket easy, ain’t nobody gonna check. Plus, her Dad’s got the airports and the station covered. Nice option, and if Rox can pretend to be a broke student who wants to go party in London, then Charlotta will go along with and bang, they can get her into a safehouse somewhere before they deal with the rest of the shit.

Which is why they’re four rows ahead of him, doing shots of Apple sours and scrolling through boys on Tindr, and he’s trying to work out how he’s gonna stay awake for the next ten hours.

They probably don’t need him there – he’s scanned the bus, there’s only four guys who look like they might be heavies and Rox could take ‘em, easy, but Charlotta’s got a pretty big sum on her head and anyway, everyone still thinks it’s hysterically fucking funny to send Eggsy on missions with princesses. 

And this one stings particularly, since he never actually fucked Tilde, too much stress and running around freeing hostages, whilst Charlotta’s been getting her end away with Roxy since three days after they first met. She keeps referring to it as a phase, according to Roxy, and then slinking back into her bed for another go. And she’s well fucking fit, and everything.

Yeah, Eggsy thinks, currently the only things in his favour are the fact he’s got a spare seat next to him and the fact that Kingsman-issue noise cancelling headphones are the absolute shit.

It only takes Eggsy two hours before he’s bored to tears of the French audio-book he’s listening to for immersion practice. Two hours thirty until he’s eaten most of the food he brought with him and he’s given up on the Sudoku because he cannot work out how on earth his mum does them, they’re basically impossible and incredibly boring.

He keeps refusing to let Merlin teach him how to do the cryptic, because it’s a slippery slope to slippers and a smoking jacket, yeah, but right now he’d take that back because the next eight or so hours are looking like a long fucking sit and it’s not like he can doze off, just in case there is trouble.

All that said, it’s not like he means for it to happen. The couple in the row in front of him ain’t even that fit. The one on the left’s got this haircut, bit mental, like he saw a picture of Harry Stiles and went ‘that, please, but bigger’. The other bloke’s quite a bit older – not that he’s judging, obviously – and he’s got this dark hair, almost black, shot through with a bit of silver, and he’s wearing what looks like a grey velvet blazer.

They were bickering when they got on: ‘Ok, last minute, but Jesus, I wish we’d just splashed out on the train. My knees aren’t going to thank me.’

‘It’ll be fun’, the younger man had said, accent certainly not Scottish – Welsh, maybe? – ‘And how often do we get to actually surprise your brother, so shut up.’

But they’d been drinking those little cans of G&T since the bus started, and now they were all over each other, the younger one leaning his head against the older one’s shoulder, stealing kisses when they thought nobody was looking. It was cute, really. Nice. Made him want to kiss Harry, suddenly, made him miss the way his hand always came up to settle against the back of his head, the way it tightened in his hair the second he slipped him any tongue. Harry Hart, absolute slut for a good filthy kiss, the way he’d make little noises in his throat when it got messy…

God, he misses him. Fuckin’ hell, he’d much rather be sitting on the sofa, Harry all stretched out over him than on this fucking bus.

The couple in front are proper snogging now. He can hear their little wet noises if he concentrates, the way the younger one’s breath hitches. He’s so keen, he can tell from the way he keeps wriggling that he’s sprung. And his boyfriend’s getting proper handsy, rucking the bottom of his t-shirt up. 

It’s making him think about what they want to be doing, and he’s imagining them shoving coats over their laps, the older one wanking his boyfriend off underneath his jacket on the Megabus to London.

That’s about the least sexy thing imaginable, should be enough to put him of snogging for life but it’s not like there’s much else on offer. And to be fair to them, they’re really into it, which is pretty much all he ever needs in wank-fodder – Harry had once described him as liking ‘enthusiasm over specialism’ when he’d seen his browsing history.

And Harry was right – he ain’t fussy. And this is nice enough, free show, and he’s flicking through his phone enough that they aren’t gonna notice. He’s not being a perv, even, really, they’re obviously happy getting off on a bus full of people.

He realises, about ten minutes into watching them, that he’s getting hard. Proper hard, not just a little twitch. He’s properly filling out in his trousers and he ain’t even that interested, it’s just… well.

It’s just that, at some point whilst he was watching them, he’d let his mind wander. And it’s wandered right into Merlin’s office, hasn’t it. Doesn’t know why he surprised, these days. He shifts in his seat just slightly, pretends it's the way he bumps his head against the cushion that turns his glasses to ‘record’. 

Merlin’s office is sacrosanct. It’s so neat it looks like a spare office, but Eggsy’s seen what happens to idiots who make that assumption. The rest of Merlin’s department might work in the basement, but he’s got an office amongst the Agents, right next door to Arthur’s. Proper corner office, only it’s one way glass because Merlin’s the closest thing to a creepy assassin-type Eggsy’s ever met, and he literally works with assassins.

He’s got used to the fact that three times out of four, when he walks past Merlin’s office he’s sharply called in, like he’s in trouble. 

He’s getting used to the fact that he is, actually, pretty often in trouble. He’s got no idea how Merlin knows if he hasn’t done his paperwork, if he ain’t returned his prototype weapons in top nick – ‘s’gotta be below his paygrade, that stuff – but he does, somehow, and he loves taking Eggsy to task for it.

Eggsy sometimes reckons that Harry knows exactly how he feels about Merlin, and gives Merlin reasons to haul Eggsy in. He’s keeping an eye on it, and honestly he sort of hopes that Harry’s cottoned on because that would make a bunch of conversations easier, wouldn’t it.

He shift in his seat, then, conscious that already there’s a little wet spot that feels tacky against him, that he’s already hard enough for that, and he’s thinking about Merlin’s office. God, he’s got a problem.

He hopes Merlin has cottoned on, in a way. He imagines it, that conversation, Harry and Merlin with drinks in their hands. They were out last week, he knows that for a fact. Harry had come home pissed and handsy, had made for a lovely end to his Wednesday night, blowing Harry in the hall whilst he murmured endearments at him from against the front door.

Lets himself imagine them in one of those high-backed leather booths, probably the one at the Coach and Four with the view of both exits and the bar. Harry leaning over to Merlin, probably not until drink two at the earliest, touching the outside of his littlest finger along the still line of Merlin’s hand.

‘He likes you, you know.’

‘Who, Eggsy? Wondered when this might come up.’

‘You did? And why might that be?’

‘Harry,’ that ‘don’t dick about’ warning that Merlin’s voice sometimes gets. ‘Harry, come on. He’s been doing it for months now.’

This is the bit that makes Eggsy’s spine go a bit liquid, makes his stomach flip with adrenaline the way it does before a big jump, a shootout. The good fear. The stuff that makes him sharp. The stuff that makes him shove the heel of his hand up against his trousers and rub, hard, the stimulation making him bite his lip.

Would Harry be angry with him? He doubts it. It’s not like they don’t do honeypots, ain’t like Harry isn’t … funny with Merlin. Close, like there’s history there. Close like maybe the history ain’t quite done, but that’s a conversation that makes him feel proper weird, and he ain’t gonna ruin a perfectly good wank-fantasy by working out if he thinks Merlin might wanna be in a …whatever with them. Poly-thing, or whatever.

He wriggles in his seat, feels where his dick’s flush against his fly now, spreads his legs and feels the way the restriction of the jeans presses against him. Makes a little shiver of arousal walk it’s way up his back.

‘Doing what for months now?’, Harry-in-his-head asks.

‘Giving me an eyeful. Or an earful. Absolutely going for it when he knows I’m likely to see.’

‘Going for it?’

‘Giving himself the hairy palm treatment. Getting off. Getting his end away. Pulling himself. Wanking, Harry.’

Harry is speechless, the colour high in his cheeks, caught as if between an inhale and an exhale and suspended there forever.

And then he grins, that shark-grin that turns his pretty face into something devilish.

‘Got a pretty cock, our Eggsy. Puts on a good show.’ Delicately rotating his pint glass between thumb and forefinger. ‘Still, not entirely professional conduct. Possibly best… that he’s reminded of his manners.’

‘You volunteering?’ Merlin raises an eyebrow, reminds Harry that this little mis-step of Eggsy’s took place on his turf.

‘Not at all. Be my guest. The lesson would, after all, be more pertinent delivered by you.’

Yeah yeah, it’s not the most realistic conversation in the world, they’re both in high-resolution hotness, and both hard under the table. Merlin in Eggsy’s fantasies looks considerably better rested than current Merlin, for a start. But whilst Eggsy’s wanking creativity might be unlimited in both location and fantasy, he’s not gonna get too fussy about the setup, they’re already most of the way to York, the bus getting hotter, stuffier, louder with every mile.

So forgive him if his mind jumps a bit, glosses over the logistics and straight to the good parts. 

He’s called into Merlin’s office, some day he’s meant to be on leave but he’s come in to give Harry something. So he’s pretty much wearing what he’s in now, dark polo and jeans, snapback and maybe that red jacket that he knows Harry likes.

‘Galahad. A moment of your time please.’

Even just the thought of that voice, strict yet weirdly indifferent, makes his breath start to stick in his lungs a bit.

‘Merlin, to what do I owe the pleasure, guv.’ And yeah, Eggsy-in-his-head is playing this just a shade cockier than he’d ever dare, but ain’t that the point of a wank-fantasy?

‘Eggsy. Sit down please. We need to talk about your behaviour.’

‘Swear down, guv, those reports of mine were filed last week – if they ain’t made it through accounting yet, that ain’t my…’

‘It’s not about your bloody mission reports. It’s about….’ Merlin pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s about the – well, there have been instances of certain behaviours, caught on film and audio…’

Merlin trails off significantly, obviously hoping that the inference is clear.

Eggsy lets his face rest dumb for a second, like he’s gonna make Merlin actually spell it out for him, then he makes a noise in his throat, catches Merlin’s eye and…

‘What, the time I’ve been spending with Ms Palm an’ her girls?’

Merlin gives him a look that’s half incomprehension, half horribly dawning realisation achieved through context clues. 

‘Eggsy, that’s hardly…’

‘Listen, you get as sleep deprived as I was in Guadalajara, a bit of hand shandy’s the only thing standing between you and going proper mental. Ditto seven fucking nights in Whitby. Me tossing one off in the car was just…’

He can feel his face redden as he sits in the bus just thinking about saying those things to Merlin. To his mates, yeah, fine, even to Rox maybe, he loves the way her face screws up when he pulls out one she ain’t heard before, but Merlin…

His cock gives a little pulse that he knows is slick, knows he’s getting his briefs proper wet already over the thought of letting those words out in front of Merlin. Jesus fucking Christ is he far gone. He shoves his jacket over his lap, lets his hand cup over himself. Just a little squeeze, barely anything, but ain’t it absolutely glorious.

‘Oh Eggsy,’ Merlin-in-his-head says, voice all quiet and dangerous. ‘All of our agents occasionally resort to …self-pleasure, and other forms of personal gratification whilst on mission. That isn’t the issue, is it.’

‘Nah, it’s because I keep celebrating Palm Sunday –’ And even Merlin snorts at that one – ‘where I reckon you might see, innit.’

‘Well quite. And not only does it potentially expose my staff to inappropriate images it also represents a fairly glib attitude toward consent. My consent, specifically.’

‘But, guv,’ and Eggsy’s aware he’s whining, ‘I reckoned…you would’ve said something, right, if you weren’t getting off on it…’

‘If you’re so keen for me to see you in action, Eggsy, if you’re just so keen to get your dick out for me that you don’t care who else sees it, if you want to see exactly how I react to you getting yourself off in front of me…’

Fuckin’ hell, Eggsy’s so fucking turned on he can barely see straight. Hard as steel in his jeans, and before he can work out that it’s a stupid idea he’s wriggled his zip down, hissing at how much better it feels, how much harder he gets the second he ain’t trapped. 

He looks about, but nobody’s paying him any attention, the girls behind him are all basically passed out and the couple in front have stopped snogging but he was right, there’s some definite – something – underneath that coat. And that don’t help either.

He realises as he shifts that his boxers are well past ‘slightly sticky’, that the he’s wet as an otter’s pocket, leaking like a tap in shit hotel bathroom and honestly, he’s been winding himself up so long that he’s probably three strokes off coming all over his pants. It’s not like he’s used to this – it’s been ages since he’s been turned on and not able to touch himself, and he’d forgotten just how easy it was to get himself pretty far along with just his brain. 

Which yeah, what a great bit of reflection that would be, nice little bit of data, except that he’s so hard it hurts and he’s in the middle of the fuckin’ Megabus and so close to getting off that a stiff breeze would be welcome, and would certainly get the job done.

It’s then he sees it – the little green illuminated sign that lets him know the toilet’s free. The fucking Megabus toilet. He’s seen Trainspotting, knows fine well how rank a loo can be, and it’s not exactly inviting with the door bumping gently every time they turn a corner. He’s not sure if his plan had just been to cross his legs for ten hours, but he’s fucking certain he don’t want to go in there to get himself off.

But then his dick throbs, and he imagines the little hitch in Merlin’s breathing as he absolutely bollocks him, and realises he’s been stroking his index finger idly along his cock the whole time he’s been thinking, and that’s not on, really, is it. Someone might see him, plus he’s hardly combat ready, if something does kick off. 

He imagines it, Merlin staring at him and Harry watching from the side, his cock in hand, waiting, as if for the start of a filthy ballet. The air thick with it, caught breath and anticipation, and before he can recalibrate he’s standing up.

His jeans are tight, finally persuaded Kingsman that they did need to make combat ready casual wear so they’re fine, he can move fine, but as he heads down the bus to the loo he’s suddenly aware that they might be bullet proof but they don’t hide nothing. And he’s hard. And sure, nobody’s really looking but one of the drunk girls flashes him a look, raises an eyebrow, lets her eyes dip down. Should’ve tied his hoodie round his waist, but apparently being this hard for this long makes him a total idiot. 

He reckons the damp spot won’t show in the bus lighting but its there, he’s properly leaking now, wet in his briefs. One of those moods where he half wants to show Harry, take a shit photo and text it to him, but he knows the lightings crap, and anyway his hands are all shaky and he’s gone Merlin’s imaginary voice in his head, cool and just a little amused:

‘You that desperate, Eggsy? Gonna get your cock out in a disgusting little hole of a toilet? You really can’t keep it together, can you? All right then, let’s see you, let’s see how hard you are.’

And he’s barely into the toilet, barely fumbled the lock when he’s leaning back against the door, cock out in trembling hands, jeans shoved low over his hips. Forgets to pull his t-shirt up because of course he does, and so he gets a little slick trail of precome against the hem of his white t-shirt. Imagines Merlin seeing that, imagines him making some remark about forward planning and bloody agents and sloppy jobs –

And that’s enough, his breathing is ragged like he’s just run laps, and he’s grabbing the shitty loo roll with one hand and stroking himself up and down with the other, once, twice, three times, thumb over the head because what’s the point of being wet as he gets if you aren’t gonna use it, and he lets his eyes close, lets his mouth fall open and hears himself, a hoarse little whisper,

‘Fucking hell, fuck, fuck, fuck I need to – fuck…’

And it’s almost too much. He’s almost too far gone, can’t quite catch the clarity of heat, the rush of feeling he needs, and he can hear the bus motor and the low chatter outside and it’s all almost too loud, too much, until – 

There’s a cough on his comms. Tiny, accidental, as if someone has been trying to keep from coughing for too long. The cough is dry, quick, over almost before his ear catches it.

But it’s unmistakeable. He’d know that cough anywhere, even if he were blindfolded and spun round.

Merlin’s on the other end of the line, listening in real time, and clearly, he’d been holding back, trying not to make a noise.

Just like that, just with that small cough, that tiny knowledge that Merlin’s actually fucking there, Eggsy comes.

It hits him in a rush, all heat and bright sparks behind his eyes and thumping in his head, and it’s far too much and he’s far too knocked out by it to do anything but let it wash over him, let it consume him completely. It’s a fucking mess, he can feel how hard he’s coming, how much, right up over his t-shirt, over his hand, through his fingers. Fuckin’ hell. He’s not even sure how much will be on video, bc he was too surprised to remember to look down.

It doesn’t matter though. Feels like his veins are full of golden syrup, like he’s a walking shaft of sunlight, like he’s…like he’s won something properly precious. He looks down, realises that for all he feels a million dollars, he’s still standing on a pissy floor covered in his own jizz. Despite that, he can still feel himself grinning like a right prick. 

He cleans up, makes it back to his seat, and the couple in front must be done too, pretty much dozing off, all cosy and leaning on each other.

He slips his headphones back on. Might as well listen to the rest of the audiobook, and he digs around in his bag, finds StarMix he’d forgot about, and a copy of some industry car magazine that he’s been asked to start boning up on for the next mission. Look at him, the very spit of a professional working spy.

Down the comms line, he could absolutely swear he hears a little sigh, but he doesn’t say nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to read this intensely filthy nonsense. Shoutout to all the various cheerleaders who've been over-invested in the megabus loo.
> 
> Please do leave comments, because much like Eggsy on a ten hour megabus journey, I sincerely crave any and all distraction.
> 
> xx


End file.
